Measuring time by means of a watch was something that seemed like a distant memory in the few moments that Carla Largo was able to contemplate the swirling mass of stress and obligation that had taken the place of what had once been her life. Instead she had come to orient herself by the colour of the pills that she was taking at any given time during the day as they seemed to be the only thing that remained fixed and constant as she lurched from one place to another under the weight of her responsibilities.
Stimulants woke her up in the morning, shaking off the effects of the downers she had taken the night before in order to stop her mind dwelling on insurmountable problems and ensure a few hours of restless sleep. They sustained her through the morning as she sat at her desk, the monotony of her day job threatening to lull her into a trance before a second dose at midday to see her through the afternoon.
Numbing painkillers silenced her constant headache as she commuted home and allowed her to ignore the pain in her back and legs that accumulated from hours behind a desk. Their effects made her a dull and unresponsive shadow of her own self as she spent the few stressful hours in the course of each day that she was able with her small family.
These were followed by more stimulants to wake up her senses as she crossed town for the third time in the space of the same day. While most would have been contemplating the end of their labours, Carla needed to be as alert and responsive as possible in order to catch the attention of the patrons at the downtown club where she worked most of the night.
If she could not command their attention then the money that she so desperately needed would not follow and so the endless cycle of toil, drugs and degradation continued for her. Days blurred into one and there were times when she wondered if the world that she perceived resembled the one that those without the cocktail of chemicals in their systems experienced at all.
When she danced, Carla was almost able to lose herself in the act of movement and submit to the rhythm of the music that filled the small private room in which she performed. The moment was fleeting, but in it she sometimes managed to escape the constant battle being fought inside her head between the problems that threatened to destroy her life and the control that she felt slipping away from her a little at a time. There was no doubt the drugs that she relied upon took the edge off and aided her in letting go, although she would have been vehement in her denial that they were the only factor involved.
Carla would have been considered too young by some to have been so burdened with problems, being no more than a few years into her thirties. But fate never seemed to share that opinion and she lived in constant fear of the effect of strain beginning to show in the lines of her face. As vain as such an obsession with her appearance might have sounded when taken at face value, weighed against the sheer level of stress she was used to living with, her ability to make money from flaunting her body before those who would pay for the privilege depended upon it.
Though she was harsh on her own appearance, filled with paranoia at the need to remain attractive and desirable to the eyes of her clients, Carla seldom failed to seem less than impressive by the standards of the casual observer. Her height was not exceptional, but her body was a collection of fulsome curves that worked from top to bottom as she moved on the podium. The deep brown shade of her skin caught the light beautifully; only serving to add to the allure of her form and her sleek black hair swallowed the same light whole as it span and twisted with her motions.
When she danced, she wore as close to nothing as she was able, aware of the fact that the men who paid to see her were not interested in the way that clothes hung from her body in the slightest. Her panties were so small as to be almost lost in the lines of her abdomen and her breasts stood naked save for a pair of nipple caps that covered nothing else.
On that night in particular, Carla had felt herself to be on what she considered to be a roll. More than half a dozen clients had sat down to watch as she used the movements of her body to convince them that she was aching to make love to them above any other man alive. The reality of the fact that the simple thought of them even touching her naked skin made her want to be physically sick could not have been further from her mind as she worked.
But her sense of empowerment had been shattered by the arrival of a man who, though one of her most valued clients, was always able to make the reality of her situation come crashing down on her head.
Aubrey Lister entered the small room in which Carla danced in the same manner as always, like a king striding into the space where he was about to hold court. His entourage remained outside the door, their presence somehow managing to follow Lister into the room while they did not. He seated himself in the chair that stood before the raised podium as though it was a throne fashioned for his sole use and regarded her with his customary smile that encompassed a greeting, a command to begin his entertainment and a lascivious leer all in some expression.
Carla knew better than to disappoint Lister, mounting the podium and wasting no time in pouring what was left of her passion and energy into a dance that could result in a significant payment should the man be happy come the end.
In reality she had no idea of what paid for Lister's immaculate suits, glinting jewellery and deliberately evident personal grooming. The rumours that followed in his wake were more than enough to convince her and anyone else that the answer to that question was not worth the cost of discovering it. Any man who was as well heeled, well attended by bodyguards and able to display such obvious wealth was likely to be ruthless in keeping his secrets and those that belonged to Aubrey Lister were well kept indeed.
Not for the first time, Carla found her mind wandering to the thought of how much money was represented by the effort that went into presenting the man to the world at large. From the shaved dome of his head, all the way down to the expensive leather of the shoes that he wore on his feet. She wondered how many times the salary from her day job could have been eaten up by expenses that would be a trifle to this man's considerations.
Carla could not have said why the man always seemed to want to see her dance when there were younger girls working in the club who regularly commanded more for their services than she was able. One thing that she was sure of was the fact that there was no hint of romance or deeper emotion on Lister's part, her experience of the man told her that to him such things were most likely alien concepts as far as the opposite sex was concerned. More likely that she was the subject of some fixation that compelled him to seek out her services and return for more whenever he could. The thought of what might lie behind that fixation scared her, but not nearly enough to outweigh the temptation of his money.
When the dancing was done and a small wad of notes had passed from Lister's had into her own, Carla steeled herself for what inevitably followed. If the man had been prone to pushing his luck too far by touching her against her wishes or making it plain that he wanted more than she was willing to give him that might have been easier to contend with. But Aubrey Lister was not nearly crude or stupid enough to behave in a manner that would cause a breach of the etiquette that supposedly existed for such a situation.
It should have been no issue at all that Lister insisted on ending his time with her by simply talking to Carla, his deep and commanding voice filling the space between them as she refused to answer his seemingly pleasant and innocent questions or respond to his observations. She knew that for him it was all part of the experience, a game that he enjoyed playing with the woman who was obliged to flaunt herself in front of him. The man seemed to revel in the act of speaking to her as though they were somehow engaged in a relationship that was at odds with reality, as though discussing mundane subjects and aspects of her life that were far removed from her role as a dancer was the norm.
The root of the thing, she suspected with her limited understanding of Lister, was nothing more than the exercise of power. He was simply pushing gently at her resolve, secure in the knowledge that she would not be willing to risk losing his favour and therefore his money by rebuking his comments.
"I hope that you're getting your rest," Lister's tone was nonchalant as always, "it'd be a shame to think that you weren't getting a full eight hours after exerting yourself like that."
Carla tried to block out his words as she folded the bills he had handed to her, back turned and body language as neutral as she could make it. She had no idea as to what Lister knew about her life outside of the club, but she knew that even with the sedative dose that was waiting for her on the bedside table, there would be no more than a few hours of snatched sleep before the next day began.
"Suppose there are things that keep you on your toes outside of this place though?"
All that she had to do was keep a hold of herself, ignore the words until he used up the time he could legitimately sit there and occupy time that could be earning money for herself and the club if the occupant of the seat were replaced.
"I'd make a guess that you have a couple of kids making things interesting in your life," he chuckled to himself. "Not that they ruined the view from where I'm sitting."
At the mention of her children, Carla's grip on her emotions slipped and the effect was like the opening of floodgates. A racking sob escaped even as she tried to stifle it with one had while the other clutched at her stomach, the sudden rush of emotion turning her guts into a churning mass of nausea.
She was sure that she could have held on through anything that Lister chosen to mention, apart from her children.
"Apologies," she turned to see that he was leaning forward in his seat, holding out a handkerchief that could have been nothing but silk, "if I have unintentionally struck a nerve."
